


Regret

by PangurBan24601



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Banter, Childbirth, Earn Your Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Mpreg, difficult birth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:35:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22764829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PangurBan24601/pseuds/PangurBan24601
Summary: Geralt doesn’t really know at what point he realized everything had gone wrong.He is reminded of the old wives’ tale that says if you place a frog in a pan of cold water over a fire, it will not know it's boiling until it's too late. He wonders if that’s what the entire last nine months have been; his lover inching closer and closer to his death while Geralt watched, too blinded by happiness to realize where it all was heading. He should have tried harder to stop it. He should have been more careful.He should have asked Yennefer to perform an abortion.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 98
Kudos: 536





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing in this tense. It feels weird, but hopefully there aren't too many errors. I was also trying to limit dialogue, since I tend to rely heavily on that. Hope you enjoy! Please let me know what you think.
> 
> And please don't plagiarize. Seriously.

Geralt wishes he could regret the events that led up to this.

The witcher is upright on his knees, providing an anchor and balance to Jaskier who has been in a deep squat for the past hour, his forearms flush with Geralt’s and their fingers tightly interlocked. Geralt wishes he could see Jaskier’s face, and at the same time is grateful that he doesn’t have to watch his lover’s suffering. He can already hear the weary sighs, the grunts of effort, the whimpers of pain. He can feel the tenseness of Jaskier’s muscles squeezing and releasing as they work toward their goal of moving the babe down and out, seeming to be both for and against Jaskier as he struggles for control over his own body. Geralt can both smell and taste blood, and he hopes it is mostly from the lip he has bitten through in his own efforts not to cry out at the horror of it all and not from the bright red blood that he has just now noticed is falling one or two drops at a time onto the floorboards beneath Jaskier.

Geralt’s thighs are trembling and his knees hurt so badly he is sure they are already purple with bruises, but he doesn’t dare move or complain. This is the only position Jaskier has found that gives him any sense of control over what is happening to him. With Geralt’s strong arms and hands holding him tightly in place, Jaskier doesn’t have to worry about balancing on the platforms of his feet. He can just focus on that feeling of everything moving down, down, down, and out. Gravity has become his second birthing partner, and he has grown to depend on it more and more over the past hour.

Geralt vaguely registers that he can no longer feel his fingers, but that is also a complaint that can wait; he would deny himself any and every comfort if it offered Jaskier even the slightest respite from his suffering.

And he _is_ suffering. It has gone on so long. Whether it has been too long, Geralt does not know. The midwives say that firstborns like to take their time, but he is certain that the pushing stage isn’t supposed to last this long. Certainly he knows that childbirth isn’t _easy,_ but this…This surely cannot be normal. It has been well over an hour since Jaskier first began pushing. Jaskier had been so _excited_ then, so _sure_ that he was moments from meeting his child for the first time.

Now Jaskier is gasping for air, trying to gather the strength and nerve to attempt another huge push. He seems to have concluded that smaller pushes, though easier, are a waste of his energy, which is in short supply as it is. After what seems like an entire minute, the gasping suddenly stops, replaced by a strained, desperate sound as Jaskier bears down once again, his entire body rigid with effort. He cannot hold the push for very long, and it ends too quickly. Geralt knows without asking that the effort was as good as wasted. Jaskier hasn’t felt the babe move down for a good half hour. He would have said something if it had.

Jaskier spends another minute breathing deeply, waiting for the next pain, for the next chance to take back control over the body that seems to have betrayed him entirely. The contraction comes far sooner than expected and Jaskier sobs with the pain, unable to find the strength to push. Geralt bites down harder on his lip and presses closer against Jaskier, _willing_ him to feel his love and support because Geralt cannot trust himself to open his mouth without screaming.

Jaskier is growing weaker, and Geralt doesn’t know how much longer they can go on like this. The bard is exhausted and hurting, and he must be scared out of his mind. He pants through the contraction that came too early; he seems to have decided to try anew on the next one. Or perhaps the one after that. Geralt suddenly wonders if the contractions will strengthen to the point that Jaskier will not have to push at all. Maybe the bard’s body will force the child out on its own without assistance from its owner. The thought both comforts and appalls Geralt.

The witcher is pulled from his thoughts by a sharp keen of pain. The contraction has intensified to the point where Jaskier cannot be silent, the cry being pulled from his throat against his will. Jaskier presses back against Geralt and barely manages to utter the witcher’s name in warning before collapsing, his legs no longer able to hold him up. Geralt catches him effortlessly; even without a warning he would not have let his lover fall. He shifts Jaskier in his arms, hooking his right arm beneath Jaskier’s knees and holding his back up with his left arm. Despite the bard’s daily insistence that he feels both enormous and so very heavy, he seems so small from this position cradled in the witcher’s lap.

Jaskier looks up into Geralt’s eyes and forces a small, weak smile that is probably supposed to be reassuring, but does nothing for Geralt’s nerves. _He_ should be the one comforting his partner, not the other way around. Jaskier looks away and winces, both hands now wrapping around the swell of his abdomen. He squirms in Geralt’s arms.

“Let me back up. I need to keep going.”

Geralt would find Jaskier’s resolve encouraging if he couldn’t _feel_ the bard trembling in his arms. There is no way he can keep pushing on his feet, whether with Geralt’s support or not.

“How about you try on your side for a little while?”

Jaskier sighs with frustration, but he nods his agreement. The meager room they are staying in doesn't have much to offer, but at least it has a bed and an innkeeper known for his discretion. Jaskier allows Geralt to carry him to the bed, roll him onto his side and lift his right leg. The next contraction is still earlier than expected—they are coming nearly on top of each other now—and Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut, curls in, and pushes, a soft whimper escaping his lips.

Geralt leans over to look beneath the leg he is holding up and bending back. He is dismayed, but not surprised to see the streaks of blood on Jaskier’s thighs. But it is the thing between Jaskier’s legs that causes Geralt’s stomach to drop in abject horror.

It's a tiny foot.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, thank you so much for your comments so far! I'm sorry this story is completely lacking in my usual humor. I decided to go full on angst/hurt/comfort for this one, so I'm hoping that floats most of your boats. :D Enjoy!

“Stop pushing,” Geralt orders, and Jaskier turns his head to look at him like he’s gone mad. Before Geralt can stop him, Jaskier’s hand falls between his legs and he feels what Geralt has just seen. The bard’s eyes widen in terror.

“What do we do?” Jaskier asks, voice trembling, and Geralt realizes that the fates of Jaskier and their unborn child now rest entirely in his own inexperienced hands.

Geralt is not completely unprepared; a month ago he had spoken extensively with Nenneke about everything that could go wrong. She had even let him attend a birth where the child presented bottom-first instead of head. The mother had struggled, but the babe had been born safely thanks to Nenneke’s skilled guidance.

Geralt remembers asking what would happen if the feet came first. “With the buttocks?” she had replied, “Fine, nearly the same as what you just witnessed. By themselves?” She had shaken her head. “Take a knife to her belly and pray to Melitele that at least one of them survives.” He had pressed her for more information, and she had explained that the child almost invariably gets trapped when presenting that way.

Geralt would never have thought seeing a babe’s tiny, pale foot could strike such fear in his heart. It almost feels like this is Melitele’s revenge for Geralt’s blasphemy at her temple. It’s almost enough to make him actually _believe_ in her. Almost.

Angered goddess or not, Geralt knows to trust Nenneke’s expertise. He puts a comforting hand to Jaskier’s cheek, and Jaskier reaches up and holds it there.

“I need you to be strong,” Geralt says, and he senses that somehow Jaskier _knows._ The bard’s hand tenses over Geralt’s. They stay like that a moment longer, but soon Geralt has to pull his hand away. There’s not much time.

Geralt takes a sharp knife and pours alcohol over it, wiping it dry with a clean cloth. He pulls several corked vials from his saddlebag. Jaskier just lies there and weeps at the pain, one hand still between his legs feeling his baby’s foot dangling so innocently from inside.

Geralt presses his left hand behind Jaskier’s head and lifts it up, preparing to give him a potion that will put him into a deep sleep. Jaskier seems to suddenly change his mind at the sight of the knife and sleep potion. He begins to panic, feebly struggling against Geralt while speaking a nearly incoherent string of protests.

“No, please don’t, I can keep pushing, I _can,_ oh please god, Geralt, please don’t make me sleep, I’m _frightened,_ Geralt don’t cut me open, I’m begging you, my love, _please_ let me keep pushing!”

Jaskier’s frantic protests bring tears to Geralt’s eyes, but the witcher knows he cannot relent. He brings to potion to Jaskier’s mouth and the bard turns his head away, throws a hand out, and manages to knock the potion to the floor, where it shatters. No matter. Geralt reaches for another. Jaskier feebly grabs at his arm—his strength is no match for the witcher’s.

“Geralt, _please_! Damn it, you’re not listening to me! I can keep pushing, I _can_! Please don’t—please! Oh god, don’t do this to us, _don’t make this choice for me!”_

Geralt freezes at that. _I’m taking away his choice._ Jaskier has been struggling this whole time for control of his own body, and Geralt is about to take it away entirely. Geralt suddenly understands that if he does this, whether or not Jaskier and the baby live, their relationship is over.

_It would be worth it if he lived._

Geralt shakes the thought from his head, his decision made. He will not force anything on Jaskier. This is another decision he will not regret, regardless of what happens.

He drops the potion to the floor—the innkeeper will certainly be charging extra for the mess—and gathers Jaskier in his arms, kissing his hair, his forehead, his cheeks.

“I’m sorry, love, I’m so sorry. Forgive me,” Geralt begs in a hoarse whisper.

“You wouldn’t have done it,” Jaskier says, perhaps only to convince himself, but it does make Geralt feel marginally better. The moment doesn’t last. Jaskier tenses and cries out, another pain reaching its peak. Geralt looks down and sees that a second foot has joined the first. He meets Jaskier’s eyes. It’s now or never, but he needs to know that Jaskier is _sure_.

“I’m going to have to pull. It will hurt. You will probably be injured,” Geralt warns. Jaskier nods.

“The baby will probably die,” the witcher continues. Jaskier nods again, and his eyes are shining with fresh tears.

“You’ll need to push as hard as you can, for as long as you can. You won’t have time to wait for contractions.”

Jaskier nods a third time.

“I can do that,” is all he says.

Geralt quickly arranges two pillows at the head of the bed and lays Jaskier down on his back. Jaskier spreads his legs, and Geralt feels his own face go pale at the sight of all that _blood_. Something terrible has happened within—that much is certain. There is nothing else for them to do but get the child _out,_ as soon as possible.

Geralt takes a firm hold of the tiny, pale feet and looks up to give Jaskier one more chance to change his mind. Jaskier tilts his head down.

“Pull,” the bard commands through clenched teeth. He leans forward and pushes with a strained grunt of effort. Geralt begins pulling, gently at first.

Jaskier _screams_.

* * *

Geralt doesn’t really know at what point he realized that everything had gone wrong. He is suddenly reminded of the old wives’ tale that says if you place a frog in a pan of cold water over a fire, it will not know it's boiling until it's too late. He wonders if that’s what the entire last nine months have been; his lover inching closer and closer to his death while Geralt watched, too blinded by happiness to realize where it all was heading. He should have tried harder to stop it. He should have been more careful.

He should have asked Yennefer to perform an abortion.

 _No._ Even now he cannot regret their choice. He wants to. _Damn_ does he want to regret that night of bliss, that morning a month later when Jaskier tearfully told him, that afternoon when they decided as partners that their lives would never be the same again. He wants to regret every decision that brought them here, but he _cannot._ This child came of love and _is_ love. Geralt won’t let it die.

He won’t let either of them die.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New point of view for this chapter! I decided those two needed help. Extra credit to folks who discover who this guy is (disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN ANYONE IN THIS STORY). I wouldn't exactly call this a cross-over, but I'm definitely borrowing some people.
> 
> I hope everyone is staying safe!

The travelers enter his inn at dusk, just before the place begins to fill up with the usual crowd of farmers and laborers looking to wind down with a drink before returning to their homes for the night.

The taller of the two has his hood up, but the innkeeper can see that the man’s hair is white, or perhaps simply devoid of color. In any case, it’s highly unusual in a man who otherwise appears young.

The other, smaller man seems oddly familiar, but he can’t quite put his finger on where he could have seen him before. This one doesn’t look well; he seems distracted and pained.

The white-haired man must know how his companion looks, because the first thing he says is an explanation.

“My nephew is sensitive to the trees in this area. They make his eyes itch and he sometimes has difficulty breathing. He’s a bit embarrassed about it, actually.”

The innkeeper studies the two travelers closely, though he is careful to keep his expression neutral. The smaller man lacks the tell-tale watery, red eyes associated with the illness that some of the locals catch from the foliage. Furthermore, winter, the peak season for the illness, is still months away. It is stiflingly hot outside, yet the smaller man is wrapped from shoulders to toes in a black cloak.

_Is he trying to hide a wound?_ The innkeeper considers for a moment. No, that doesn’t make sense. Soldiers and farmers alike often stop here to rest and recover from injuries. He frequently stitches and dresses them himself, careful to offer the same lie every time he is asked where he learned medicine. What reason could the travelers have to conceal their wounds?

He notices the smaller man’s face tighten subtly. He may be trying to hide it, but the innkeeper knows what pain looks like. The traveler isn’t well, that much is obvious.

“How much for a room then? Two beds, if you can. This one snores,” white-hair pats the smaller man on the back, too purposefully to be convincing. The innkeeper can’t help but notice how gentle his touch is.

“Five for the night,” the innkeeper answers. “One bed only, I’m afraid.”

White-hair shrugs and hands over the coins. The innkeeper nods his thanks. “Just this way.”

He takes a lantern and leads them up the stairs and to the end of the hall—the most remote part of the inn. He does not yet know what secrets they are trying to keep, but he trusts his gut when it comes to people—these two are no danger to him or his business. And he knows how it feels to live in hiding. He will offer what help he can.

He opens the door and leads them in, quickly lighting the lamp at the table.

“The stew will be ready in about an hour. I can have some sent up if you’re looking to stay in for the night.”

“No need,” white-hair answers, too quickly. “We have already eaten.” The innkeeper nods his understanding.

“My assistant and I will be downstairs for the next four hours or so, if you need anything.”

“…Thank you,” white-hair says. His companion has not spoken the entire time.

The innkeeper closes the door behind him and he hears the lock immediately turn on the other side. He turns and something wet on the wooden floorboards catches the light of his lantern. He kneels and holds the lantern out. It’s a trail of clear droplets that leads almost to the stairs. He frowns. It’s not raining outside.

_“—trousers are soaked through. How long—”_

He tarries for a moment longer, listening to the hushed voices from behind the door.

_“—don’t know. I’m sorry. It’s happening. Tonight, I think. Oh god…I’m sorry—”_

_“Stop apologizing.”_

The voices cease, but he has heard enough. He steps as lightly as he can down the hallway and nearly runs into his sole employee on the stairs.

“You were spying,” he accuses the handsome, dark-haired man.

“I was worried. They are hiding something. You’re too trusting.”

“They _are_ hiding something. We’re going to keep a close watch on that room. I’m worried for them.”

The young man tilts his head questioningly, but the innkeeper ignores it.

“Get a mop and clean the hallway. Be as quiet as you can. I don’t want to disturb them.”

“Of course. Care to explain what I’ll be cleaning up?”

The innkeeper looks at his apprentice and sighs in defeat.

“I’m reasonably certain that it’s amniotic fluid.”

* * *

He returns briefly every half hour to listen for any sign of progress. He hears mostly hushed voices and frequent whimpers of pain, but the thing he is listening for has not arrived even four hours after sundown.

He hears the scream from downstairs and he wonders if he’s waited too long.

He assures the patrons who have lingered at their tables that he’s going upstairs to see what is the matter, and he politely declines several offers of assistance with a carefully practiced smile.

He knocks at the door at the end of the hall, but only to avoid frightening his guests more than he has to. He hears a man’s voice call, _“Fuck off, we’re trying to sleep,”_ but there’s too much tremor in it to be convincing. He inserts the key and turns it. The sight waiting for him behind the door is exactly what he expected, but it still makes his stomach turn.

The smaller man, the “nephew,” if the other is to be believed, is on the bed, his back propped up against the pillows. He is stark naked, and his midsection is swollen, painfully so, confirming the innkeeper’s guess. He’s clearly heavy with child, and already deep into the throes of labor. If he had looked tired and hurting earlier, he looks exhausted and in agony now, red-faced and sweating from his struggle to give birth.

It isn’t going well.

The white-haired man is between the laboring man’s legs, his hands doing something that the innkeeper cannot see. He looks at the innkeeper with a snarl of rage and screams, _“Get out!”_

The innkeeper swallows, but stands his ground.

“I heard noises.”

“Leave us. _Now.”_ White-hair stands and steps toward the innkeeper threateningly. His hands are covered in blood. _A very bad sign,_ the innkeeper notes. The laboring man moans and shifts, giving the innkeeper a brief view of his exposed lower half. His thighs are smeared with blood and—the innkeeper’s heart sinks—the infant’s feet have already been born.

White-hair winces and turns at the pained sound his companion has made, then looks back at the innkeeper, fire in his eyes.

The innkeeper doesn’t think he’s ever seen a love this _fierce._ The way this man stands between his laboring companion and an unwelcome intruder reminds him of a wolf protecting its mate and pups. He is acutely aware of how dangerous this white-haired man must be, especially now that fear has dragged him to the edge of his control. Still, it is clear that they are in desperate need of help. It is not in him to ignore them. He turns and calls for his apprentice.

When he turns back, white-hair’s fingers are wrapped around his neck. He tries to cry out, but barely manages a choking sound, grabbing at the arm holding him almost aloft. Fortunately, his apprentice appears almost instantly and manages a swift strike to white-hair’s throat. White-hair coughs violently and loosens his grip enough for the innkeeper to pull away. His apprentice is poised to strike again, but the innkeeper throws his hand out to stop him.

“Don’t,” he says, hoarsely. “Go boil some water. We’ll need several buckets. Bring all the clean cloths and towels you can find.”

His apprentice looks warily at the white-haired man who is still coughing and holding his throat.

“I’ll be fine. Go,” the innkeeper orders, and his apprentice nods and rushes to his tasks.

“What the fuck are you doing?” white-hair snarls.

The innkeeper nods toward the laboring man.

“I'm here to help."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took a while, I hope you're still enjoying it!


	4. Chapter 4

The innkeeper turns and shuts the door behind him. Geralt remains stationary, a solid barrier between the intruder and Jaskier.

_“Geralt.”_ A broken voice calls from the bed. _“Geralt, help…please…”_

Geralt steals a glance at Jaskier, gives the innkeeper a strained look, and rushes to his lover’s side. He wraps his arms protectively around the bard, wishing he could take the pain and suffering away. The innkeeper takes tentative a step toward them, and Geralt growls in warning. The innkeeper raises his hands placatingly.

“I have no intention of harming your partner or your child. The baby is yours, correct?” the innkeeper asks, taking another step forward.

“I don’t see how that matters where you’re concerned,” Geralt says, darkly. “And I can’t imagine how your brand of _‘discretion’_ is good for business.”

“I will not reveal your secrets, if that’s what you’re worried about. My reputation is well-deserved.” Another step forward.

“And what about _your_ secrets?” Geralt says. “Your little slave’s disguise may work on the average farmer, but it will not fool me. How does a humble innkeeper come to employ a faerie of his skill?”

“He’s not my slave,” the innkeeper says, coldly. “He is my apprentice.”

“Can’t imagine why a faerie would clear tables and sweep floors for a human unless he was under some kind of contract—”

Jaskier suddenly whimpers, his hands clutching at Geralt’s arms with the strength of pain. They are running short on time. The baby is already dead; Geralt is sure of it. He needs to find the best way to remove it without injuring Jaskier further. He reaches for the sleep potion he should have given his lover earlier.

_“Don’t!”_ the innkeeper cries. “The babe is footling breech; if the cord appears you will only have minutes to deliver the child before it suffocates. He needs to be awake to push.”

Geralt’s attention snaps to the innkeeper, his eyes wide.

The innkeeper swallows. “I see. You think it’s already dead,” he says.

“You—You think there is still a chance…?” Geralt asks in spite of himself.

The innkeeper nods. “I can help. _Please_. There isn’t much time.”

Geralt looks at Jaskier’s face, all tear-streaked and twisted in agony. He could end his lover’s suffering right now, or he could entrust this total stranger with both of their lives. If he chooses the former, he may be killing his own child. The latter, and he may lose them both anyway. He sets his jaw and blinks several times, trying to hold back the tears threatening to spill over. Finally, he squeezes his eyes shut and nods.

“Thank you,” the innkeeper says, releasing a soft sigh. He rolls up his sleeves as he cautiously approaches the bed. “What is his name?” he asks.

“Jas—Julian. It’s Julian,” Geralt says, his arms still around the bard.

“Hello, Julian,” the innkeeper addresses Jaskier directly. “You can call me Kole. Everyone in this town does.”

“Hello, Kole,” Jaskier whispers. “Y-you have kind eyes.” Jaskier looks up at Geralt and offers a tiny, weak smile as if to say, _It’s all right. I choose to trust this man._ Geralt nods stiffly back at Jaskier. He understands. Their choices are limited. Still, he wishes Jaskier didn’t feel the need to be the one doing the comforting.

“I’m going to try to help you and your little one. I may need to touch you—is that all right?” Kole asks.

Jaskier nods, spreading his knees slightly wider. Geralt reluctantly shifts over and lays Jaskier down. Kole places a gentle hand on Jaskier’s rounded midsection, feeling for something. Geralt sees the innkeeper’s gaze fall between Jaskier’s legs, his expression noticeably tightening with worry.

“How long since the pains first started?”

“They started around midday—” Geralt begins to answer.

“No,” Jaskier interrupts. “They worsened around midday. They began in the very early hours of the morning.” He looks at Geralt guiltily. Geralt regards his lover, shocked at the revelation.

“You were in labor and didn’t tell me?”

“We were already looking for shelter. It would have served no purpose other than making you worry.”

“Then _let_ me worry, damn it!”

“I’m sorry—”

“No, don’t apologize,” Geralt says, shaking his head. He’s spoken too quickly again and is kicking himself for it. His lover is struggling to give birth and he’s _yelling_ at him over something stupid.

“So you’ve been in labor almost an entire day,” Kole says, almost to himself. “Your water broke around five o’clock?”

“That’s right. Sorry about the mess,” Jaskier mumbles.

“Never mind that. How long have you been pushing?”

“Two hours now,” Jaskier answers, quietly.

Kole nods.

“Your partner and I are going to help you turn onto your hands and knees.”

“It’s Geralt. My— _ugh!—_ My partner’s name is Geralt,” Jaskier says as he shifts positions with their help.

“Geralt, then,” Kole says. “I can see he loves you very much.”

Geralt looks at Kole—truly _looks_ at him for the first time. The innkeeper moves and speaks as if he is well past his fortieth year, yet his face is youthful, and his dark, red hair shows no sign of grey. He could easily be twenty-five, perhaps even younger. There is far more to this man than what meets the eye, and Geralt wonders if he made the right choice by trusting him.

There are two soft knocks at the door and Kole’s apprentice enters and silently shuts the door behind him. He approaches the bedside table and sets down a bucket of steaming water, several wooden bowls, and a pile of mismatched towels. His eyes meet Geralt’s and he offers a very small nod. It is an apology, or at least an acknowledgment that he does not consider him an enemy. Geralt returns the gesture, then focuses his attention back on Jaskier.

The bard’s hands are clenched into tights fists around the bed sheet beneath him. Geralt places his hands over Jaskier’s, squeezing gently. Jaskier briefly glances up at Geralt, then drops his head back between his arms with a weary sigh.

Kole fills a bowl with the steaming water and washes his hands, wrists, and forearms.

“This is enough for now,” he says, addressing his apprentice. “Go downstairs and try to keep the peace. There may be a lot more noise. Tell them someone was arrow-shot and the injury is complicated; the arrowhead became detached and is caught under a rib. It may take some convincing—”

“I know how to lie,” the faerie interrupts with a wry smile. “I learned from the best.”

“Yes…I suppose you did,” Kole murmurs as his apprentice closes the door on his way out. He positions himself behind Jaskier just as the bard’s breathing quickens in anticipation of another contraction.

The innkeeper’s voice is gentle but firm as he calmly directs Jaskier through the motions of childbirth.

“Bear down. That’s it. Now, push. _Push._ Good, just like that. Hold…and release.”

Jaskier lets out a ragged breath and begins panting.

“Good, Julian, well done. Keep going,” Kole says. Geralt watches Jaskier slowly regain some semblance of control of his body under the direction of this strange healer.

Jaskier takes in another huge gulp of air before bearing down again, a long, low groan escaping his throat. The moan is punctuated by a sudden sharp cry, and Geralt winces, hoping the cry was an indication of some form of progress. The contraction finally abates, and Jaskier lowers himself onto his side, weeping softly again. Geralt reaches out to stroke Jaskier’s hair, whispering encouraging words. He looks up at Kole, but the innkeeper’s face is neutral as he waits for Jaskier to get back up.

Only a minute passes, perhaps less, before Jaskier is dragging himself back onto his hands and knees and straining again. He cries out, and Kole places a hand on Jaskier’s lower back, speaking a long string of instructions.

“That’s it, Julian. Do it just like that again. It’s starting to move now, that’s what you’re feeling. No, don’t stop yet. It’s going to hurt; we can’t avoid that. There’s the cord now, we can’t afford to wait anymore. Again, Julian. Again, _now._ Push. _Push._ ”

Jaskier whimpers, but obeys Kole’s commands, and Geralt can’t decide if he prefers being unable to see what’s happening or not.

“Good, Julian, very good. Just like that, and— _STOP!”_ Kole says, urgently.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Geralt demands.

“Be quiet,” Kole snaps back. His voice is suddenly very soft and fast as he addresses Jaskier, and Geralt has to strain to hear.

“I’m going to need to reach inside you now to free her arm. Just try to be as still as you can. _Don’t push._ ”

“Why do you need to reach inside him?” Geralt asks, growing more panicked by the second. He flinches as Jaskier inhales sharply. The bard’s eyes are tightly shut in pain as Kole’s fingers enter him.

Geralt stifles a growl of frustration, feeling utterly at this stranger’s mercy, still having no idea if this man’s actions are helping or harming Jaskier. _Damn it,_ he should never have let him get this close to Jaskier! His hand unconsciously twitches toward the knife at his belt.

Jaskier suddenly shrieks in pain, and Geralt closes his eyes, gripping the knife’s handle in his hand so hard it hurts.

“Oh, god, _stop!_ ” Jaskier screams, reaching blindly toward Geralt with one hand. Geralt grabs a hold of it, his other hand still on the knife.

“You heard him,” Geralt snarls, “Get your hands off him!”

“It’s almost free,” Kole says, his voice now infuriatingly calm, “Just a few more seconds—”

Jaskier screams again, and Geralt has had enough. He moves around to Kole’s side, pulling the knife from its sheath. He grabs Kole’s shoulder with one hand and presses the knife to Kole’s throat. The innkeeper raises his head, flinching back from the cold blade against his neck, but he doesn’t retract his hands.

“Push, Julian,” Kole says through gritted teeth. “Push one more time.”

“Let go of him!” Geralt yells, pulling the knife tighter against the innkeeper’s throat.

Jaskier strains and cries out, then goes silent.

Geralt looks down, and there is a baby in Kole’s hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, wow, sorry it's been a while, but I'm seriously lacking motivation right now. Hope you liked this update, and leave a comment if you want! I think I'm gonna go have a drink...


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, hey. I wrote some more. Yay. :)

Geralt releases Kole from his grip and the knife clatters to the floor just as Jaskier collapses onto his side. The witcher stares in shock at the tiny, limp form in the innkeeper’s bloodied hands.

“Is—is it alive?” Geralt asks, his voice trembling.

“I don’t know,” Kole says, roughly. He ties off the cord with a piece of twine and cuts it with a knife from his pocket. He grabs a towel and begins vigorously stimulating the newborn. “See to your partner. Make sure he’s all right.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt calls, placing his hands on the bard’s shoulders and gently shaking him. He doesn’t see the flash of recognition in Kole’s eyes at the mention of the name.

_“Geralt.”_ Jaskier’s voice is weak, but at least he’s conscious. “Will it be over soon? I don’t think I can do this much longer…”

“It’s over, love,” Geralt says. “Our new friend is helping our baby right now.” He puts on a smile for Jaskier’s benefit, but he’s worried. Jaskier seems confused and so very _frail_.

“Can’t be over, it still hurts too much,” Jaskier says, one hand on his soft, deflated belly.

“He may need to deliver the placenta,” Kole says, his attention still on the baby. “Help him find a comfortable position.”

Geralt swallows and nods.

“You’re going to have to push just a little bit more,” he says.

Jaskier winces and shifts onto his back, spreading his legs slightly. He reaches his right hand under his right leg and Geralt helps him pull it back. Jaskier curls in around his belly and strains, a soft whine escaping his lips. The placenta is delivered within moments.

“Show it to me,” Kole orders. Geralt holds it out in Kole’s direction, turning the bloody organ over in his hands. Kole stares at it intensely for a moment, then nods. “Set it aside for now.” He goes back to working on the baby. Geralt sets the placenta on one of the towels, then fills a bowl and washes his hands.

Jaskier reaches toward Geralt, apparently unable to bear a moment away from him. Geralt sits down beside him and pulls Jaskier into his lap, holding him close.

“When do I get to hold our baby?” Jaskier murmurs, his face pressed against Geralt’s chest.

“I don’t know. Soon,” Geralt says, glancing back at Kole. The innkeeper has gone still, facing away from them as he silently cradles the baby in his arms.

It hasn’t made a sound. _It’s been several minutes and it hasn’t made a sound._

_“No,”_ Geralt says, hoarsely. The tears are already gathering in his eyes. “You—you said you could _help_. You said it would live. You—”

Kole turns and _smiles,_ and Geralt suddenly understands why it’s so easy to mistake him for a much older man. The smile instantly washes twenty years’ worth of sorrow and regret from the innkeeper’s face, revealing a handsome young healer.

“You have a little girl,” Kole says. “She’s a quiet one, but she’s breathing. She just needs some more time to work up to crying.”

“…Knows how to captivate an audience,” Jaskier says, weakly. “She gets that from me.”

“Then she must also get scaring me to death from you,” Geralt says, wiping at his tears with one hand.

“Can I hold her before I fall asleep?” Jaskier asks, his eyes already half-lidded.

“I’m sorry, but not just yet. I need to make sure her lungs are completely clear. I’m sure she’ll be making some noise any minute now,” Kole says. He wraps the infant in another clean towel and begins stimulating her again. “You’re a singer, aren’t you?” he says, not looking up.

“The best one,” Jaskier responds with a tired smile. Kole actually chuckles at that.

“Would your partner agree?” he asks.

“Today he would. He has no choice, do you love?”

Geralt grunts in response. He’s not in the mood to match wits with a poet, not after everything they’ve been through tonight.

“I thought I recognized you,” Kole says. “I’ve heard your name before. Jaskier, that is. I’ve written one or two songs myself.”

“Maybe you can sing something for us, and Geralt can decide whose singing he prefers,” Jaskier says, a hint of mischief in his weakened voice.

“Stop teasing me,” Geralt mutters. “You know I like your singing; you don’t need to force me to say it.”

Kole smiles, more sadly this time. “I don’t sing anymore,” he says. He looks back down at baby and frowns. “That’s strange. Why is her—” Kole suddenly grimaces. _“Shit.”_

“Kole?” Geralt asks, worried.

Kole lays the baby down on a pile of towels on the floor and appears to examine her arm.

“Sorry—she’s all right—well, mostly. Her left shoulder is dislocated.”

“ _Dislocated?_ What happened? What did you do to her?” Geralt demands.

“It’s all right, little one,” Kole murmurs, ignoring Geralt as he carefully rotates the child’s arm. The newborn still hasn’t made a sound, but Kole winces as if she were screaming in pain. “There you are. That’s the last of it, I promise.”

_“What happened?”_ Geralt demands again.

Kole glances briefly up at the witcher, as if he has just remembered he is there. He begins to tear a washcloth into small strips as he explains, “Her arm was raised up next to her head in the birth canal. I had to pull it down to give her head room to pass through. I tried to be careful, but—”

“He told you to stop. You were hurting her—you were hurting them both!” Geralt snarls, unconsciously holding Jaskier tighter in his embrace.

“It’s true,” Jaskier whispers, his eyes now shut. “He injured her. But it was either that or let her suffocate. Isn’t that right, Kole?”

“I wish I had done a better job, but yes. She might have been stillborn if we had delayed much longer,” Kole says. He fashions a tiny binding and begins to carefully secure the infant’s arm to her body.

Jaskier’s eyes are still shut, his voice barely audible. “He saved her life, Geralt… Now please…be a dear and try not to fault him for it.”

Geralt’s expression is tight as he watches Kole work on the newborn. He had been so worried about Jaskier this whole time, he hadn’t even considered how painful it could be for the one being born. He finds he can’t stand the thought of his newborn daughter suffering. Still, he already regrets lashing out at Kole. His eyes wander to the thin, red line on the innkeeper’s neck. A very thin stream of blood is slowly rolling down the slope of Kole’s left clavicle. Geralt feels sick.

The baby suddenly begins to cough, wetly. The coughs become clearer and more insistent, and before long she is proving the strength of her lungs with her first cries.

“Congratulations,” Kole says. “The two of you have a healthy daughter. More or less. I have no doubt she will recover well.” He stands back up, carefully lifting the baby with him.

“Would you like to hold her now?” he asks.

“Jaskier first,” Geralt says, quickly. “You’ve waited long enough, haven’t you, love?” he murmurs into Jaskier’s ear.

Jaskier does not reply.

_“Jaskier?”_ Geralt’s hand flies to Jaskier’s face, and he feels soft, warm puffs of air. _Still breathing._

“Take her,” Kole demands, his tone urgent. Geralt releases Jaskier from his arms and rushes to get up and take the crying child.

Kole kneels in front of Jaskier on the bed and examines the space between his legs, then looks back at Geralt.

“He’s hemorrhaging. I can help stop his bleeding, but I’m going to need to reach inside him again. I’m so sorry. I’ll try not to do more damage—”

“Do it,” Geralt says. “Whatever he needs, do it.”

Kole nods and presses one hand firmly against Jaskier’s abdomen, reaching inside with the other.

“I know you hate seeing him like this, but it’s almost over,” Kole says. “His womb just needs a little extra encouragement to stop the bleeding on its own.”

Geralt doesn’t understand, but he is finished fighting against what he doesn’t understand. He can wait till later for further explanation. He can wait till after Jaskier is safe and well, his firstborn held tightly in his arms. It will all be worth it then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your comments. This story did way better than it ever deserved to, so I really appreciate it! Just one more chapter after this, and I might actually finish a fic for the first time in, like...ever. Mmm, time for another drink...


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so I said this story would be all angst, but I decided (by popular demand) to try my hand at a tiny bit of fluff. It's not really my thing, so I hope ya'll enjoy the teensy bit of fluff/banter that I tossed in here. You deserve it after sticking with such a stressful story for so long. Also, I guess there will be at least one more chapter. So, yeah. Enjoy!

Geralt watches as Kole firmly massages Jaskier’s softened belly for another minute before finally retracting his hands.

“He’s still bleeding, but it’s slowing at a steady rate now. He’ll be all right,” Kole says. He fills another bowl with water and begins washing the blood from his hands.

“I am in your debt,” Geralt says, quietly.

“Yes, you are.” Kole chuckles, then more seriously, “How are you feeling?”

“Relieved, I guess. Worried still. And tired. So very tired.”

Kole nods. “You’ve been on edge for many hours. That’s exhausting work.” He gestures to the infant in Geralt’s arms. “But look at your reward.”

And Geralt does look. For the first time, really. “Yes,” Geralt agrees, gazing at pale blue eyes and wondering if they will darken to green or brown, or stay the way they are. “Worth it all, and then some.” He looks back at Jaskier and watches the bard’s chest rise and fall in a steady rhythm. It’s reassuring, but Geralt still feels a small stab of guilt. Jaskier should be the one getting to enjoy their newborn child, not Geralt.

“When will he wake up?” he asks, softly.

“Hopefully not too soon. He needs this rest to heal.”

“Do you think it would be all right if I lay beside him?”

Kole nods. “I think it would be good for all of you. Can you help me remove these sheets first? I’m afraid the poor thing is lying in his own blood right now.”

The two of them work slowly and carefully, Geralt using his free arm to gently lift Jaskier’s back, buttocks, and finally his legs while Kole works the soiled sheets out from under him. They place a clean, folded sheet beneath Jaskier to soak up the small amount of blood that still issues from him. Then Kole methodically cleans the dirt, sweat, and blood from Jaskier’s body while Geralt watches, gently swaying the child in his arms. Kole was right, she _is_ a quiet one. She has quickly lost interest in testing the limits of her lung power and is contenting herself with soft gurgles while her eyes dart around the room curiously.

“There. That should make him more comfortable,” Kole says, now laying a thin blanket over Jaskier’s freshly bathed body. He turns to Geralt and gestures for him to hand him the baby. “Just for a moment, so you can get settled,” he assures him.

Geralt reluctantly passes the child to Kole, then slips into bed beside Jaskier, gently pulling him into his embrace. Kole carefully places the baby onto Jaskier’s bare chest, and Geralt wraps a protective arm around them both.

“That’s the way,” Kole murmurs in approval. “He’ll not miss out on anything now.”

If Geralt hears him, he makes no sign of it. His eyes are already shut, his breathing evening out to match his lover’s.

“Sleep well,” Kole whispers.

* * *

It’s only a few minutes before there is a light knock at the door, and Kole quickly tiptoes over to open it, wincing at the way the hinges creak.

“What time is it?” Kole whispers, opening the door just wide enough to let his apprentice through.

“It’s half past two, or just about,” the faerie answers, taking on a hushed tone as well. “I had a hell of a time dealing with everyone. One drunk old fool almost made his way up here, saying he’d _‘removed hundreds of arrowheads from living patients in my day.’”_ He shakes his head. “He’d made it halfway up the stairs before I managed to drag him back down with promises of free cider.”

“Well done. Any complaints about the crying baby?”

“None yet. Most of them are accustomed to the sound; they probably didn’t even notice it.” He looks at the bed with its three sleeping occupants. “Now there’s a sweet sight. All of them healthy?” he asks.

“Better than could reasonably be expected. The young man lost a good deal of blood, and the little girl was born injured, but alive. They’ll be all right.”

His apprentice smiles. “A baby girl, huh? That might just be the craziest thing that’s happened here. It’s kind of nice to have some excitement for once. With a happy ending, that is.” He suddenly squints in Kole’s direction. “Did you know your neck is bleeding?” he asks.

Kole instinctively reaches for the cut on his neck and pulls his hand away, examining it for blood.

_“Was_ bleeding,” Kole corrects him. “It’s a shallow cut. I don’t think he even meant to do it.”

“Are you telling me that witcher had a knife to your throat?”

“Oh, is that what he is?” Kole says, curiously. “I had wondered what to make of those eyes, but I didn’t want to be rude.”

“Of course not. Can’t be rude to the man who tried to choke you then nearly slit your throat,” the apprentice says, his whispered words dripping with sarcasm.

“He was _scared_ ,” Kole says, firmly. “And that’s the last I want to speak of it. Now, I need you to do something for me.”

The faerie scoffs. “I would have thought I’d earned a break by now.”

“ _Shh._ Keep your voice down,” Kole whispers. “And don’t pretend you have anywhere useful to be in the middle of the night.”

“My bed is useful for sleeping…” the faerie mumbles, but Kole ignores it.

“I need you to go to the sheep farm up the road and fetch me a nursing bottle and some milk. The owner should have several on hand for the rejected lambs.”

“You’re going to feed the baby sheep’s milk?” his apprentice asks, skeptically.

“We’ll supplement it with sugar; she’ll need it after what she’s been through. Just something to keep her from starving and give her parents some time to find a proper wet nurse. Neither of them have any breasts to speak of.”

“So why didn’t these fools prepare for this in advance?”

“The baby is small, and she was born breech. It is likely she came far earlier than expected. I need to stay with them in case of more complications. Please do this for them,” Kole asks, his tone beseeching.

The youth rolls his eyes. “I’ll do it for _you,_ if I must. I’ll never understand why you humans feel the need to take responsibility for people you don’t even know.”

“Most humans don’t need a reason to help someone. And I owe a greater debt to humanity than any human you know,” Kole says, sadly.

“Don’t…Please don’t talk that way. I hate it when you talk that way,” his apprentice says, softly. Then, “I’ll see what I can do. But don’t expect me to get all my readings done tomorrow.”

“You can have one day off from your studies,” Kole concedes. “ _One_ day,” he emphasizes at his apprentice’s excited grin. He shakes his head with a smile as the faerie runs off to complete his assignment.

Kole approaches the bed for what must be the twelfth time and checks that Jaskier and the newborn are still breathing. He then sinks into the nearby chair and drops his head into his hands.

* * *

It is late morning when Geralt finally stirs. He opens his eyes to find Jaskier and the baby both asleep in his arms, right where he left them. The door to the room opens and Kole quietly enters, a steaming mug in one hand and what looks like a waterskin under his arm.

“Good morning,” Kole softly greets him. “Did you sleep well?”

“Well enough. My arm is numb, though.”

Kole smiles. “I’m not surprised. Your partner and child have been lying on it all night.”

“Did he wake at all?”

Kole shakes his head. “I’m impressed with your little one. She slept through the night as well. I had to keep checking she was still breathing.”

“She must have known her fathers needed the rest.” Geralt shifts a bit, trying to free his arm without jostling Jaskier and the baby. The baby begins fussing almost immediately in response.

Jaskier’s eyes open.

“Well, look at you, my little petal,” Jaskier murmurs, bringing his arms up to the baby lying on his bare chest.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, a tearful smile on his face. “You’re awake. I was starting to think you’d left me alone with her.”

“ _Nah_ , I’m too selfish for that,” Jaskier says, unable to take his eyes off his child. “You’re going to have to fight me for time with her.”

“I hope not,” Geralt says, placing a soft kiss on Jaskier’s lips. “Now can I have my arm back?”

Jaskier pushes himself up slightly with his elbows and gasps in pain. Geralt pulls his arm free.

“Are you all right?” Geralt asks, trying to rub some life back into his fingers.

“Just fine. Belly muscles are sore. Everything below my waist is sore.” He grins up at Geralt. “Worth it.”

“I’ve made you an herbal tea to help with the pain,” Kole says. “And your little one needs to be fed now; we can’t risk her growing too weak.”

“Can I feed her?” Jaskier asks, clearly desperate to hold onto his daughter at least a little bit longer.

“Of course,” Kole says. Geralt helps Jaskier sit up a bit while Kole quickly stacks some pillows behind him on the bed. Once Jaskier is comfortably settled in, Kole hands him the waterskin-like object, which Geralt now recognizes as a bottle made for feeding lambs.

“It might take some doing,” Kole warns. “Not all babies latch on well, and she might have trouble since she’s a bit small and—oh. Well, there you are,” Kole says, watching the infant already suckling at the bottle.

“She’s a good baby,” Jaskier says. He closes his eyes with a contented smile and dozes while the baby drinks her fill. Geralt lays on his side next to them just watching.

Eventually the baby pulls away from the bottle, making soft gurgling noises. Jaskier opens his eyes and looks toward Kole, his face tightening with pain.

“I’ll have that tea now, if that’s all right.”

“Of course,” Kole agrees.

“Here, I’ll take her,” Geralt says, setting aside the lamb bottle and shifting the baby into his arms. He raises her to his shoulder and begins gently patting her back.

“Go slowly,” Kole says, passing the no-longer-steaming mug to Jaskier, who takes a sip.

“Wow, that is _fast_ ,” Jaskier says, staring into the mug in his hands.

“It’s a strong mix,” Kole admits. “I figured you would need it.”

“ _Mmm,_ ” Jaskier agrees, taking another bigger sip. He suddenly reaches out and pats Geralt’s cheek. “Forgive me, Geralt. I have fallen in love with a handsome young innkeeper. I know it wounds you deeply to hear, but alas, he knew exactly how to take away my pain.”

Instead of his usual glare or eyeroll, Geralt just shrugs, shifting the baby from his shoulder to the cradle of his elbow. “See if I ever give her back.”

“What? _Noooo…”_ Jaskier whines. “I take it all back, love. I was weak! He made me tea and told me I was pretty.”

Kole blushes slightly and asks, “Is he always like this?”

“I’m afraid so,” Geralt replies. “Labor may have slowed his wits for a few hours, but he’ll be trying to make up for lost time once he starts feeling better. Which is now, I guess.”

_“Slowed my wits?”_ Jaskier repeats with mock annoyance. He takes another big gulp of the drugged tea. “I seem to remember making at least one positively _hilarious_ joke in the middle of a particularly brutal contraction. Something about a midwife…It was funny, because we were having a baby with no help—what was it again?”

Geralt heaves a deep, resigned sigh. “You, _um…_ You said we were having a ‘mid-wife’ crisis.”

Jaskier giggles and takes another sip. “That’s the one!”

“It was a pun, Jaskier. You _hate_ puns. You always say they’re not very clever.”

“Yes, well, I was terrified at the time, and in unspeakable pain,” Jaskier says. “ _Someone_ had to lighten the mood.”

Geralt looks at Kole. “Do you think he’s had enough of that?” he asks, gesturing toward the mug of tea.

“I do, actually,” Kole says, reaching out toward Jaskier. “Let’s have it back.”

Jaskier pouts, takes one more gulp, and hands the mug over. Kole turns it upside down, and two drops lazily roll out.

“It’s all right,” Kole assures Geralt, who looks suddenly worried. “It affects the body far more than the mind. He just might be slightly… _giddy_ for a little while.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Jaskier says. “My little petal is here, safe and sound.” He reaches out both hands in a “ _gimme_ ” gesture toward Geralt, who places the sleeping baby back into his arms.

“And what are the two of you planning to name your ‘little petal?’” Kole asks.

“How about Aksamitka?” Jaskier asks. He laughs at the look of horror on Geralt’s face. “I’m _kidding,_ love. I like what we agreed on. _Lucia._ Our light.”

“Lucia,” Kole repeats. “Beautiful.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Jaskier agrees. He yawns, his eyelids suddenly heavy.

“Go back to sleep, love,” Geralt says, gently. “You’ve earned the rest.”

Jaskier smiles, his eyes already falling shut. Geralt watches his new family sleep for a moment, then looks to Kole.

“I believe I owe you an apology, and perhaps an explanation as well,” he says.

Kole tilts his head toward Jaskier, who is now softly snoring, the babe fast asleep in his arms. “Let’s try not to disturb them,” he says. “Care to join me downstairs? My apprentice is sleeping in today, and I’m behind on the morning’s tasks.”

“Of course,” Geralt says. He places a kiss on Jaskier’s cheek and another on Lucia’s forehead. He follows Kole out the door and down the stairs to the bar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with this story! Please let me know if you like :)


End file.
